Final Gunshot
by Savagely Incoherent
Summary: "Two men, standing ten feet away from each other, aiming a gun at the others head. Their fingers are on the trigger, quivering, and they are shouting insults at each other. This was the fear that terrorized the core of our nations during the cold war." It is evident, to us nations, that in a battle one must always fall. Whether it be by another's hand, or his own.


**If anyone knows the actual quote and the guy who said it please lemme know!**

 **Cosplay Account Insta: small . crown . cosplay**

 _ **Warnings:**_

 **Alright, this is Cold War so it's a bit twisted. Suicide warning I suppose, even though they don't die because they are immortal beings. But the actions and thought process are brought up so.. _.WARNING!_ **

**Review, Read and Request! :)**

 **Hetalia does not belong to me.**

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" _Two men, standing 10 feet apart from each other, aiming a gun at the others head. Their fingers are on the trigger, quivering, and they are shouting insults at each other. This was the fear that terrorized the core of our nations during the cold war."_ *1

Two men, two nations, what difference did it make? Compared to the human body they were the epitome of godlike creatures. They were what people would bow to, surrender to, and pray to. But now? Now it was just a twisted mess, fragments of mental burning into their skin, atomic acids running through their veins. It was who they had become. The two nations had become monsters within themselves, ready to kill for whatever they thought they believed in, ready to kill for what they were told they stood for. Yet, as blood thirsty as they were, neither one could pull the trigger.

 _Trembling fingers._

It was the end, the end of the cold war, the end of the illusion they had thrown themselves in for forty years. Both nations sat across from each other in the belly of a military aircraft, flying high above the crowded land of nations known as Europe. The side off the plane was open, allowing the setting sun to break its way into the cabin and reflect across the two men. Alfred leaned against his seat, turning his head to stare blankly at the open door beside him. Exhaustion was set into his features and the frame of his 19 year old body was weak and weary. His hands were calloused and his face sunken in as his eyes finally seemed to comprehend the horrors and mistakes he had made over the course of the war. Ivan knew that he looked no better, and is his aching joints and pulled muscles were right, he was far worse off than the nation before him. The Russians cold purple eyes examined the Americans body before wearily turning to face the sun across from him. Through his exhaustion he could not help but allow a small smile bloom as the sun warmed his face with its welcoming rays.

" _Regardless of what we did or how we behaved,"_ Ivan thought as he leaned back into his seat " _the sun will always raise itself up."_

The Soviet Union or Russia now, closed his eyes and enjoyed the comforting whir and patter of the plane that carried the two most powerful men in the world. Yes, regardless of his lose, Ivan still considers himself powerful. His military and people were still strong, and he dared a nation fight against him with General Winter by his side. No he was not weak, nor would he ever admit to that.

 _Guns Loaded._

However, it still bothered Ivan that he had lost to a nation who was just barely two-hundred years old. Russian frowned and sat up, slowly opening his eyes to stare once more at the nation across from him. Miraculously, the usual hyperactive nation hadn't moved and Russia began to wonder if Alfred had the energy to twitch. He was confused now, Ivan, to think that such a child would already be so exhausted? Hell, Russia lost and yet he couldn't help but shift around in the hopes of getting his blood working again. How could he have lost to a child? He would ask himself, before frowning deeper after realizing he may not have wanted to win in the first place.

"Fredka." Ivan called out, keeping his voice brisk and firm. Though he lost, he would not lose his composure and he knows that Alfred would never want him to do that either. The 19 year old turned to face the Russian, and Ivan began to wonder if he himself looked that hollow at the moment. He had been about to tease and taunt the young one, hoping to get some form of life in the boring belly of the plane, yet noticed with one small moment of eye contact that that may have not been the best move. Ivan quickly bit his tongue, seeing for the first time, the blood thirsty machine that Alfred's government had turned him into. "Life is not over."

Alfred cocked his head to the side, the circuits frying in his brain as human emotions flowed into the robotic shell he never intended to become. Russia could not see him break, nor see him lost. It was forbidden. Victory was all he was created to seek; it's all that he's learned for the past forty years, it's all that he was taught to be. How can a machine have a life and how can that life not be over? Alfred didn't understand, what was this optimism? What was this hope? What was anything at the moment? His mistake, all of his mistakes were to haunt him for the rest of his life and now this man across from him had the audacity to tell him that it wasn't over?

"I can change that." A grin? Was this a grin that crawled, unwelcome, across his metallic facade. A crack? Was it a crack that he heard, somewhere, in his wired body?

Ivan frowned more, yet couldn't find another word to say. He feared he would say the wrong thing, and it was impossible to say anything because any word can trigger a madman.

 _On the trigger_.

Alfred stood, bending slightly to keep his balance, unlatching himself from the hold of the plane. After seeing that Ivan was done bothering him, the United States turned to watch the sun continue to set on the horizon. Ivan never understood how a man who called himself united, could be falling apart this badly. It was with a small flutter of his heart and moment of panic that he realized Alfred's intentions and stood to stop him. He refused to shout or yell, nothing of the sort that would alarm the pilot or Alfred, but he did once again open his mouth to speak, taking a step closer to his former enemy.

"Niet Fredka," Ivan said _. "There is no snow on the ground to cushion you…"_

"You will only live and feel regret after the impact." The Russian continued, reaching out his hand. _"But you already know that…"_

Alfred turned to Ivan once more, wind ripping through his hair. Tears silently rolled down his cheeks for the first time in decades. The American's voice was inaudible, but Ivan knew what he said in accordance to his body language and the form of his lips.

"I already live in regret."

The American took one step back and opened his arms as he fell from the doors of the plane and into the sky below them. Russia quickly found himself bounding after him into the sky, diving to meet the American falling from grace a few feet below him. Ivan understood for he had down the same if not similar things before. Ivan was not going to let Alfred fall alone.

 _Final Gunshot._

It is evident to us as nations, as the personification of nations, that there are two results commonly tampered with. It is also evident to us as nations, that when two men stood ten feet apart with their fingers quivering on the trigger, the Russians gun was never loaded. Status, paperwork and mortals think one way, however…

Alfred may have won the battle, but he had truly lost the war.

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 **Mmmm a short one sorry**

 **Just a little clarification:**

 **The italicized fragments are part of an outer hallucination to the overall story in reference to the quote. In the battle of the two men with the guns, Alfred was the one that had fallen yet Russia's gun was not loaded.**

 **Sorry this isn't my best (=^.^=)**

 **Anyway, tell me what you think! RRR!**

 **~Savage**


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